


Home

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home isn't just a place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

Written: 2001

First published in "Compadres 21" (2002)

 

  Sometimes people ask me why I stay with this job. I could give ‘em the usual line about helpin’ other people, about Pop having been a cop before he was killed, about how I love the job. But tell you the truth, seems like some days I just don’t have a good answer. 

  It was definitely beginnin’ to look like one of those days. 

  Being undercover is probably one of the hardest things you can do as a cop. Hutch an’ me have done it for a day or two for different cases, and then it’s usually more fun than work. Being with your partner, no matter what’s goin’ on, makes all the difference. Even if you start losin’ who you are, he won’t let you forget. But being somebody else, for a month...you start forgettin’ what’s real. I’d have written myself a reminder for when I first got up each morning and didn’t know right away who or where I was, except that’s a good way to get yourself killed.

  That’s the other part of bein’ under. You walk around all day expecting to be stabbed in the back, and sleep with one eye open all night expecting it in the gut. You’re in there pretendin’ your head off, but anyone gets an idea of who you really are and you’re history. You haven’t even got a partner behind you to watch your back. 

  Hutch was out there, of course. Talked to him every day like we arranged and I knew he was keeping an eye on me, but he wasn’t likin’ it any more than me. Well, at least once a day I got to talk to someone I didn’t have to watch what I said with or pretend to. Didn’t mean I was spilling everything I was feelin’--we mostly joked around. But he knew. Doesn’t ever matter what I say, he knows. 

  God, I wanted to go home. 

  Didn’t seem like that day would be any different. I was under to find out everything I could about a new gang in town, already suspected of bein’ tied to a dozen execution-style killings. Nice guys. Hutch an’ I didn’t even have to think about it when Dobey asked us if we wanted in. Hadn’t figured then that being in would mean all the way, over my head, but hey, that comes with the job sometimes, too. So for four weeks, I’d been a “facilitator.” 

  And then the bust suddenly busted. 

  It was a new guy comin’ in, one I didn’t even recognize. ‘Course, Hutch and I have put away a lot of turkeys and I don’t keep a scrapbook. Maybe he looked familiar, I don’t know, but the creep knew me the minute he laid his eyes on me. 

  “Hey, that dude’s a cop!”

  I had a minute to think. After all, he was the new guy and I’d already been there a few weeks. Everybody looked at me, two of ‘em reaching for their pieces, and I went into my act.

  “What’re you talkin’ about? Do I look like a cop to you?” I laughed at him, made like one of the guys. 

  Robby stepped in then. He’d been my only friend in those lousy four weeks, except for that worried blond voice on the phone at 2300 each night, as close as people in this business who don’t trust each other could get. “Don’t be stupid,” Robby said, gettin’ mad at the new guy. “He’s been here a long time--he ain’t Vice.” 

  Most smart scumbags woulda backed down then and gotten out of there as soon as possible, but not this creep. “I’m tellin’ you, I know this guy. He arrested me a coupla years back.”

  Robby wasn’t budging, but I could see the others were startin’ to get nervous. Doesn’t matter if you’d been there a month or ten years; you don’t trust anyone. I wasn’t too surprised when one of ‘em pulled his gun out then, a canon like Hutch’s got. 

  I have this thing about being at the wrong end of a gun barrel. I feinted to the right, still grinnin’, then swung left and sent the piece flying. It went off as it hit the ground, or maybe somebody else was already shootin’ at me, but I wasn’t waiting around to find out. I was already out of there and heading for the doors. 

  I’d just made it down the hall and into another room when the new guy caught up with me. I went down hard, him on top of me. 

  He had a knife. I had a very strong intention of bein’ alive to see the sunset that evening. But I guess it wasn’t as strong as the knife. Shortly after I’d thrown him off and gotten up, I was back on the floor, my arm bleeding, him grinnin’, and that knife heading for my throat. 

  I really hate undercover work. Hutch would never forgive me for gettin’ myself killed while he wasn’t around. 

  There was the _pop, pop_ of two gunshots, and suddenly the knife fell to the floor and the guy was fallin’ on top of me, already dead. I shoved him aside and saw Robby inside the door, bringin’ his Luger down. 

  “You all right?” he asked before I could say anything, and when I nodded, he stepped closer, getting ready to give me a hand up. “Stupid--guy should’ve known you don’t get in by trying to set someone else up.”

  There’d already been noises in the hallway, but now all of a sudden it was loud, and Robby turned, aimin’ again, this time at the doorway. I thought the rest of the bunch was coming after me, ‘til I heard that voice I’d always know anywhere, yellin’, “Police!” in between all the crashing. And it was almost at the door. The door Robby was aimin’ at. 

  I drew my gun and aimed. “Robby. Don’t.” 

  He turned to look at me, and I could see it in his eyes the moment he figured it out. He was mad, yeah. But he was also sorry. Betrayed. One long look at me, and he turned back to the door. 

  The blond head appeared just as I pulled the trigger. Twice.

  My arms dropped, my Smith & Wesson sliding out of my hands. I didn’t want to go home anymore. I just wanted to _go_.

  Hutch had pulled back when I fired and rushed in low this time, then stopped and took in the scene: me sitting on the floor next to the dead new guy and Robby on his face in front of me, two bullets in his back. He hollered something outside into the hallway, then holstered his gun and walked over to me. 

  “You okay?” 

  That’s always the first question, and even though I didn’t really know the answer, I nodded. 

  Hutch had never needed an answer, though. He was already fussin’ with my arm. “Cut yourself shaving?” he asked, trying not to sound worried. I don’t know why we ever bother trying to hide something from each other anymore. It never works. 

  The cut felt warm and throbbed a little but it didn’t hurt that much. I shrugged with my good shoulder. “‘S not bad.” 

  “You don’t mind if I ruin your fancy clothes, do you?” He was smiling as he said it and I actually smiled back a little. Hutch had hated the flashy, expensive undercover wardrobe even more than I had. I didn’t say anything as he tore the suit and shirt sleeves at the shoulder, then at the knife tear, carefully peeling it off me.

  The crashing and yelling in the hallway had died down and two uniforms finally appeared, followed by a SWAT guy. I knew Hutch had been keeping close wherever I went and it made sense that he’d come in at the sound of gunshots, but I had no idea how he’d gotten back-up so fast. He looked up at me, promptin’ me with his eyes, and I turned to the uniforms, suddenly feeling awfully tired.

  “Guy beside you is Robert Maslow. Two in the back from my gun.” I watched them bag my Smith & Wesson. “This guy,” I nodded with my chin, “I don’t know. At least one in his back from Rob--Maslow’s gun.” There would be questions to answer later, tons of paperwork to fill out and statements to give and a shooting hearing board to appear in front of, but that’d be all they needed for the time being and all I’d felt able to give. 

  Hutch was watching me, even as I could feel him tyin’ something tight around my arm, finally making it hurt. I winced, openin’ my mouth to protest, but Hutch was already talking. “That was him, wasn’t it?” 

  He didn’t have to say it, I knew he was talkin’ about Robby. “Yeah,” I said. 

  Like I said, it never worked trying to hide something from each other. He’d already figured out what had gone down, but he finished up my arm without sayin’ a word. Then he looked me in the eyes again. “I think we’d better take you in for some stitches. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  I still didn’t have an answer. 

  Hutch watched me, finding his own answer. And more, saying some things I wouldn’t have heard or listened to if he’d put them into words. His eyes, hard and mad and scared when he’d first come in, were warm now, soft, still worried but just as sure that he could take care of it, take care of me. That was love without any camouflage, meant for my eyes alone. 

  Sittin’ there, a little bit dizzy and in pain, with blood and bodies around me, it hit me like it does sometimes how undeservedly lucky I am.

  Hutch put a hand on my cheek for a minute, keeping it there while I took a long, deep breath, my first one in a month. Hutch was almost smilin’, loaning me the energy to get my act together again. For my sake, not his--I figured he could deal with me just about any way I was. 

  After a minute, he stood and reached out a hand to help me up. I let him pull me, wobbling as I got on my feet, my right ankle suddenly not happy about having weight on it. 

  “Whoa--what’s wrong?” Steadying me as usual, Hutch was already bending down.

  I nudged him back up. “Think I turned it a little--it’s okay. Just give me a hand, huh?” It truly didn’t feel broken, only tight and sore, but my blond nursemaid still wasn’t satisfied ‘til he’d pulled up my pants leg and taken a look himself. I felt a little silly, standing there swayin’, hanging on to him while he looked at my ankle, but nobody was really payin’ attention to us. One glance at Robby and I was distracted, too.

  Satisfied, at least for the moment, Hutch straightened up and put an arm around my waist as I dropped mine along his shoulder. “Try not to put any weight on it. It looks like a mild sprain but we’ll have them look at it at the hospital, then ice it when we get home, okay?”

  Home--it sounded almost unreal. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go anymore, still reelin’ from everything that had happened in the last fifteen minutes, let alone the last month. “What about the paperwork?” I mumbled, concentrating on my feet. 

  “The paperwork can wait. I can take your statement and we can go in to do the rest tomorrow.” 

  “Dobey’s gonna kill us, an’ IA--”

  “Starsk--shut up.”

  Starsky. My own name struck me. I’d missed that, too. 

  Maybe he noticed or maybe he simply knew what I needed because he glanced at me then and said, lighter this time, “I think you lost some weight there, Starsky. No pizza-with-everything and loaded tacos lately?”

  I frowned, trying to play along as we picked our way down the hall around a lot of guys in handcuffs and all different kinds of cops. Everyone was too busy to notice us. “Nah--we always ate at these fancy places where you have’ta wear a tie and can’t read anything on the menu.” 

  “Gourmet cuisine, huh? Bet that was shock to your stomach, partner.” 

  “Not likin’ calf brains and goose livers is normal, Hutch. You ask me, those high falutin’ places are the weird ones.” 

  Hutch grinned at me. “Aw, Starsk, you just don’t know what good food is.” 

  I hadn’t missed the fact that he was usin’ my name a lot, a subtle back-up that felt better than I was willing to admit. But he wasn’t pushing, letting me set the pace, and right then that stupid conversation was nice, comfortable. “Yeah, well, a lot more of that ‘good food’ and I’d’ve starved to death.” We were almost to the outside door now, and I pulled at the tie around my neck, loosening and pulling it off. Right outside the door, outside the crime scene, I let it fall. 

  Hutch shook his head in mock despair. “You’re a Neanderthal, Starsky.” 

  I was supposed to be insulted now, but I forgot to be when I caught sight of the car. My car--he had the Torino with him. He’d thought of that, too. Hutch helped me get in, careful and protective, giving me a smile before he shut the door, and suddenly I had a lump in my throat. I didn’t know anybody else as gentle or thoughtful as my partner when he cared about someone. Even in the day-to-day little stuff like the smiles and looks and touches, but especially when I was hurtin’. He always knew, and he always handled it. I’d missed that sense of bein’ looked after while I was under, more than I’d realized.

  He got in on the other side, but didn’t start the car right away, turning to me. “Rampart General’s on the way to your place--we can stop by there first and then get you home.” 

  “What about the paperwork?” I protested. Funny how, after a month of longing, suddenly I was reluctant to go home. I couldn’t even figure out why. 

  “Starsky, the paperwork can wait,” Hutch said, as deliberately patient as if he were talkin’ to a stubborn kid. Which was probably what I was sounding like. “I think you need a little time to unwind at home first.” 

  Irritability I couldn’t explain stirred in me. “I’m a cop, Hutch--I can do the job. I wanna go to the station first.” And I stared straight forward, out the windshield.

  There was silence for a moment, then, quietly, he said, “Michaels?”

  “Wh--” I reacted before I thought about it, turning to respond. Then shivering once with an angry hurt as I realized it’d been a trick. 

  They always tell you to try to choose some version of your name or something similar when going under so you would always react instinctively to it. “David Michaels” had seemed to make sense, even if it had sounded weird at first. What they didn’t tell you was how much you’d get to hate the name, even as it became second nature. 

  And I’d just answered to it coming from my own partner.

  Hutch leaned closer, one arm along the back of the seat to rub at my stubborn shoulder. “Starsk,” he said gently, “you just spent twenty-seven days being somebody else, constantly on your guard, never safe enough to relax. You need some time to get rid of David Michaels and get comfortable being David Michael Starsky again. Every cop who’s been under knows that.” 

  He was talking from experience. My New York roots had helped me get in with this crowd, but it would have been my turn, anyway; Hutch’d had his about a year before, except his stint had been closer to a month-and-a-half. I’d ended up takin’ him out of the city for a couple of days to give him some downtime to find himself again. 

  It was hard to let your guard down after keeping it up for so long, though, even with someone you trusted at the deepest-down instinct level. I wasn’t angry at him, not really, and dropped that act, but curled up tiredly in my seat without answering.

  He didn’t push, just started the car and drove to Rampart. 

  I really was tired--hadn’t had a peaceful night’s sleep in a month--and the hospital visit ended up kind of a blur. Hutch sat with me in the waiting room, went in when I was called, and stood there across the room, holding up the wall and watching as the doctor checked me out. Always where I could see him, as a matter of fact, and it’s dumb but I did check a coupla times to make sure he was still there. He just smiled at me. One constant in this major shift in my life. 

  They made him go outside while they x-rayed my ankle, but before I knew it, he was standin’ next to me and talking about something, I’m not sure what, while the doctor put a few stitches in my arm. Neither of us is crazy about needles. 

  Then the doctor, whatever his name was, looked the rest of me over. I knew what was comin’ when he found the old bruises around my ribs and kidneys and the knot on the back of my head; I hadn’t told Hutch about some of rougher stuff or the tests of loyalty. I didn’t look at him for the rest of the exam, knowin’ what I’d see in his eyes and feelin’ his anger even across the room. 

  But it wasn’t aimed at me. When the doctor was done and I could go, Hutch came over and handed me a bag. “I picked up some stuff from your place--thought you’d want to change.” He didn’t sound mad at all, but it wasn’t pity that made his voice gentle. It was that nothing else really mattered so much when he was hurt, or I was. In a few days I’d probably get a lecture about partners keeping secrets from each other, but for now it was enough that I’d be all right and he could do something to help. 

  I didn’t say anything, embarrassed even more now about actin’ like a baby before, even though from the look he gave me, it didn’t seem like he wasn’t holding it against me. My partner could give lessons on forgiveness. God knows he’d had a lot of practice with me.

  Who woulda thought an old pair of jeans, a red sweater, and a pair of Adidas’ could make such a difference? Another thing he’d figured out I needed before I had. I couldn’t change fast enough, and felt like a new man after. 

  Even with an aching arm and ankle, I was still feelin’ a lot better by the time he rolled me outside to the Torino. Normally, I hate the wheelchair rule, but I wasn’t anxious to put a lot of weight on the ankle and I was really too tired to care much, anyway. In fact, I think I dozed off on the way to my apartment, ‘cause the next thing I knew, Hutch was crouching beside me, whispering me awake. 

  I just blinked for a minute at the building. Home--really home, not that dumpy little motel I’d been sleeping in the last few weeks. It was a pretty mixed-up feeling, bein’ back.

  Hutch got me up the stairs somehow, probably by holdin’ up more of my weight than I was although he didn’t fuss about it, and opened the door.

  Home. 

  I moved slowly, shuffling on my ankle and stopping to stare at everything. All the pictures, the old books I read when I couldn’t sleep, Milton the plant. Took me a while to realize everything had been dusted, and the place didn’t smell as musty as it should’ve after a month. I knew Hutch was comin’ by to pick up the mail and water Milton, but it looked like he’d been doin’ a lot more than that. So what else was new? I’d have bet the refrigerator was full, too, mostly with the junk I love and a little of his own health food stuff thrown in--he never stops tryin’. 

  He never will.

  “Everything okay?” he asked behind me where he’d stayed, near the door, watchin’ me reacquaint myself with the place. My home. Me. 

  And I wasn’t me without him, not anymore. I smiled at him, sorta apologizing for earlier, and thanking him, for...everything. “Yeah,” I said simply. 

  I could see that in his eyes, too. He got it. I knew he would. 

  He straightened. “By the way, I talked to Dobey while you were being x-rayed. He said the bust was good and looks like they’ve got most of what they needed.”

  My stomach settled a little more in its place. It was easier to deal with the aftereffects if you knew it’d been worth it, and givin’ murder victims’ families some answers and peace was always worth it. 

  Hutch’s eyes were still on me, his face serious. “I’m sorry about Robby,” he finally said, gently, as if not wanting to hurt me with the reminder. 

  I’d be lyin’ if I said it didn’t twinge, but his being ready to kill Hutch had wiped out a lot of my sympathy for the man. I was a little surprised, maybe even a little guilty to realize I hadn’t even thought about him since we’d headed for the hospital, but Robby hadn’t exactly been an innocent victim. I just shrugged. “‘S okay. He made his choices.”

  Hutch nodded. And then he was shutting the door and pulling his jacket off, back in caretaker mode. “You want me to put on some water for tea, or make a sandwich? Or how ‘bout a nap?”

  It was only afternoon, but I had to admit, sleep sounded terrific. In my own bed, in a mostly quiet house--I’d have company, I already knew that. Funny, how tired you could get just from bein’ on your guard for a month. The adrenalin was finally gone, leaving me empty, husked out. “Bed.”

  “Okay. I think I’ll stick around, Starsky, finish that copy of _Prisoner of Zenda_ I started, okay?” Hutch asked, all innocent, as he pointed to the bookshelf, the other hand tucked in his back pocket, as if the idea had only occurred to him then. 

  “Help yourself.” I swallowed a grin and gave a vague wave, then a more deliberate one as he stepped forward to help me. I was moving okay as long as I took it slow. The books were a good excuse for him, although I had a feeling sometimes that Hutch liked all my childhood favorites better than the heavy philosophical garbage his shelves were stuffed with. Not like we needed excuses--sometimes it was almost scary how easily I could see through him now, and I couldn’t hide anything from him, either. But it worked for us. 

  “Maybe we can get a pizza after you wake up.” Hutch had already settled on my couch, the book in his hand, but he was watching me carefully as I limped into the bedroom. 

  “Sure,” I called back, “but only if it’s got everything.” 

  “No anchovies,” Hutch said firmly.

  “Hey, anchovies are good.” I eased down on the edge of the bed, pulling my shoes off one by one. “Brain food.” 

  “Well, you certainly need that.” 

  Sarcasm--it was a good sign Hutch was relaxing, too. And a definite challenge. The other shoe hit the ground and I picked up the picture of my pop from beside my bed, lookin’ at it while I shot back, “I’ll have you know that the Starskys come from a long line of fishermen. My grandfather was the first one who broke the tradition when he moved out to the States and became a factory worker, but the Starskys were known for their big loads.” 

  “I don’t doubt that for a second,” Hutch answered, dry.

  I put the frame down again and tried to glower at my partner through the bedroom wall. “Of fish, dummy. You know, you’re a real scream sometimes, Hutch.” I slid under the covers in a huff. It felt great.

  “I love you, too.” I just barely heard the fond, smiling voice from the other room. 

  And he does. I’m pretty sure I was smiling back when I went to sleep. 

  So why do I stay with this job? I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t believe in it. Even when times are bad and the lines get fuzzy, I still can point to the difference I’ve made and I’m proud of that. But I don’t think that woulda been enough to keep me going all these years, not by itself. I still love the job, even after a month like the last one and havin’ to kill a man who saved my life and being dead tired. I love bein’ a cop. But that by itself would’ve tarnished a while back, too. 

  It’s because of the person who keeps me believing in it and lovin’ it that I stay. I know I’ve got Hutch now with or without the job, but bein’ out on the streets together, us against the bad guys, watching each other’s backs...Well, it’s real simple.

  I’m home. 


End file.
